by Ginger Scott
“You…asshole!” I yell, shoving him again, then leaning back against my door, on the other end of the bench seat. He’s staring into my eyes, emotionless, completely unaffected by my outburst. My hands are cold from his poor heating system, and they sting when I slap him with them again, my palms coming to a thud against the layers of clothing covering his body, but I push at him anyway, shoving hard. I want to hurt him.
“You…goddamned…fucking asshole!” I scream, so loudly that I’m sure if anyone were awake and outside, they would hear me.
I shove again, and Owen sits there, bracing himself for the impact, but not stopping me. He doesn’t stop me—he doesn’t say a word. I hit him a few more times, knowing I’m not hurting him, that I’m not strong enough to come close to hurting him, but I do it anyway. I go until I feel foolish, then I get out of his truck and slam the door closed behind me.
The crunch of the wood chips between our driveways is loud under my feet. I walk quickly, never bothering to turn to face Owen, to see if he’s following me, looking at me or stepping out of his truck. I march up the front steps of my house, holding my hand on the knob and breathing deeply. When it’s unlocked, my heart breaks a little knowing I’m going to have to face whatever life is left inside.
My mother is sitting at the table when I walk in, my father’s belongings strewn around the first floor in piles. Everything looks just as I thought it would, but it doesn’t make me sad. What makes me sad is the fact that I’m not sad at all to see traces of my father’s disappearance. It’s just the opposite—I feel nothing.
“Your dad is at a hotel. He won’t be coming back. Not…not for a while,” she says, her voice showing how tired she is, how hurt she is.
I don’t answer, but I nod just enough for her to recognize a response, then I continue up the stairs to my room, the one that looks nothing like my room at all. I stand in the doorway for a few minutes, surveying my things, mostly still in boxes, and I note the time on my clock—almost six. Willow will be here in thirty minutes, and I know I would never be able to wake up if I actually fell asleep, so I grab my pillow and blanket from my bed, and curl up by my window to wait for the alarm to start my next miserable day.
Owen’s room is lit, and every now and then, I notice shadows crossing it. There’s another car in his driveway, an older sedan. I wonder if that’s his mom’s?
From my view, I can see all the way through his door, and he passes his room a few times, like he’s pacing out in the hallway, until he finally closes his door shut behind him. He pulls his sweatshirt and the T-shirt that was underneath over his head, and I watch the entire thing, letting myself admit that he’s attractive. He’s more than attractive. His skin is this warm color that’s almost golden, his stomach toned, his arms strong…and I let myself imagine how they would feel holding me.
No one has ever held me. Not a boy, anyhow. I’ve danced with boys, held hands, kissed—but not really.
Owen pulls his phone from his pocket, texting someone before putting it down on a small night table near the wall by the window. Reaching up, he shuts off the lamp that’s illuminating his room, and just like that, he disappears.
And I admit to myself that I miss him.
“You look like total shit,” Willow says as I climb into her car, wearing a change of clothes, but yesterday’s hair.
“I feel like shit,” I say.
“Yeah? Oh, hey…uh…if you’re going to vomit? You need to tell me. I need to know because I’m, like…one of those sympathetic vomiters. I’m serious—if you throw up, I’ll throw up. And then we’ll both be throwing up…in my car. Yeah, maybe you should stay home?” She’s talking so fast that it makes my head hurt. I only drank the one drink, but it was enough to leave me feeling not quite right.
“I’m not sick. I’m just tired. It was a long night,” I say, noticing Owen’s window is still dark, his truck still in it’s place—right where we left it.
My mom was awake still, her body frozen to the same chair it was in when I got home an hour before. I have a feeling she’ll be there when I get home.
“Homework?” Willow asks, her car skidding over the curb as she backs out of my driveway.
“Uh…yeah…a lot of homework,” I lie. I like Willow, but not enough to relive my nightmare, at least not yet.
School is easy, and I’m grateful for that. Owen misses our morning classes, and his crew is noticeably missing from the window show I’ve gotten accustomed to during lunch.
The afternoon passes in a blur. Owen never shows up, and nobody looks for him. It’s strange how nobody asks why he’s missing, and I feel like I’m literally watching him slip through the cracks of the education system.
There’s a project assignment in science, and I make plans to start it right away, gathering the requirement sheets and supplies from the classroom before meeting Willow in the parking lot—Owen’s truck still nowhere to be found. Elise and Ryan are in Willow’s back seat, and I notice how much Ryan reminds me of Owen. Not so much in the face, but his body—his long legs folded to fit in the tightness of Willow’s car, his strong arm draped behind Elise, his eyes dark, clothing dark, his hat pulled low.
I’m thinking about Owen. I’m looking at Ryan, and I’m thinking about Owen, and I’m so aware that I’m doing it that I’m ashamed. But I keep thinking about him. He’s a distraction—he’s also the reason I need a distraction. And he doesn’t have to know I think about him.
“How come Owen misses so much school?” I ask, hoping Ryan will give me a little piece to the puzzle. Willow’s gaze falls on me fast, and I realize how jarring my question is. “I just saw him last night, in front of his house,” I say, my words coming out rushed and nervous. “And I know he’s fine, or not sick or whatever. It was weird he wasn’t here. That’s all.”
I’m overly-justifying my question, and Willow knows it too. She keeps her eyes on me a little longer, until the light flicks to green and she pulls away from our school. Her questions are lining up in her mind, and I know they’re coming. I just hope I can avoid them a little longer—until I know how to answer them.
“Owen’s grades are fine. That’s all that matters. He’s never ineligible for basketball; he doesn’t miss practice, and his grades are good,” Ryan says, following up his explanation with a harsh sigh. He’s defensive over Owen, and I sort of wish I had someone like Ryan to be defensive over me. “Seriously, Kensi. Don’t believe half of the shit you hear. It pisses me off—how people talk about him? He’s a good guy.”
Willow lets out a rush of air with a laugh at Ryan’s words, and he kicks his leg forward into the back of her seat.
“You hush. You’re not qualified to be impartial,” Ryan says, and something about the way he says it makes me turn my gaze to Willow.
“Like hell I’m not,” she says, her face suddenly less…perky.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Willow went out with Owen, freshman year. She’s still mad about him breaking up with her,” Ryan says, and everything inside of me feels heavy. I’m jealous. I’m jealous!
“One…” Willow starts, her eyes on Ryan in the rearview mirror, “I did not go out with him. We hooked up, at a party, for like…an hour. And two, I am over him. I just don’t agree with the way he used me, then ignored me. And I don’t like the way he continues to do that to girls, over and over again. It’s…it’s demeaning.”
It is demeaning. I can’t argue with her there. But…it seems to me that at this point girls know what they’re in for with him. I’ve been here for a few weeks, and I have him figured out.
“Whatever,” Ryan says, turning his interest to the window, to Owen’s house outside. “He’s a good guy, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t date him if you don’t like the way he treats girls. But don’t judge him. He’d never hurt anyone.”
A small laugh escapes my throat, and I cover it up quickly with a cough. Ryan notices, and our eyes meet. I shake his gaze off and turn my attention to the door, to my hous
e, to my crappy life inside.
“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see ya in the morning?” I say, holding the door open and noticing Ryan still studying me.
“Yeah, I’ll be here a little earlier. We have extra rehearsals in the morning, okay?” Willow says, and I nod, closing the door behind me and blocking out Ryan’s stare.
I’m not sure what I expected when I stepped inside, but it wasn’t this. Our house—the one I left this morning—is completely void of my father. The only remnant of him the memories I have trapped in the music boxes stashed in the corner…and my piano. The house smells of Pine-Sol, and my mom is listening to music loudly in the kitchen, her hands covered in rubber gloves.
“I thought you were working?” I ask, scaring her a little with my voice.
“Oh! Sorry, didn’t hear you come in. Uh…yeah, work. Seems I’m a little upset, and I might have had a little bit of an issue inserting a catheter? So, I’m taking a week of personal time. The chief sort of insisted,” she says, running her arm along her nose. Her eyes are red, and I can tell she’s been crying.
“So, you’re…cleaning?” I ask, holding up a bag of trash tied and propped in the corner.
“Seems so,” she says, going back to scrubbing. “I’m getting rid of…things. Anything we don’t need, it’s in boxes in the garage.”
She didn’t say it, but I know she means she’s getting rid of my father, of his things. She’s being a little manic, and when I look around the house, I’m a little frightened by how much she’s done in the six or seven hours I’ve been gone.
“Okay, well…do you want to keep going? Or, I don’t know…can I help? I have a project to work on, but it’s not due for a while,” I say, setting my backpack on the counter and my project supplies down next to it. My mom feels lost, and I’m right there with her.
“There’s a lot of trash. There’s more on the side of the house. Maybe see what you can fit in the can?” she asks, already back to scrubbing the sink. I notice she’s thrown my father’s food away, the packets of tuna he likes all bagged up neatly—ready for the trash.
“I can handle trash,” I say, watching her wipe her brow with her sleeve, watching her pretend. I pick up the small bag of food and garbage and leave through the back door, ready to pretend right along with her.
I notice the bags stacked along the wall when I step outside, and I recognize my father’s dress shoes peaking out of the top of one of them.
“That’s a lot of nice stuff. Your mom throwing it all away?” Owen asks. I close my eyes, my back still to him.
“Guess so,” I respond.
“You should sell it,” he says, and I hear his steps moving away from me. I turn and notice he’s taking out a bag of trash too.
I drag our garbage and the first bag of my father’s things to our can, which is sitting right next to the Harpers’.
“You take out the trash,” I say, not sure why I’m surprised seeing him do such a simple thing. But I am. I’m amazed.
“Yep,” he says, flinging his bag into his container and closing the lid. I notice how empty it sounds, and I look over my shoulder at the dozen bags waiting for me.
“Hey,” I start, but stop instantly, biting my lip to give myself time to think. I almost asked him for a favor, and I don’t think I want to do that.
“If I can have those shoes, you can dump your crap in our trashcan,” he says, finishing my thought—almost.
“Really?” I’m flummoxed. He’s being nice. Or, I think he’s being nice. “And…the shoes?”
He gestures to the bags, to the one on top with my father’s dress shoes.
“Oh,” I say, feeling a little strange about the thought of Owen wearing my father’s shoes. “I…I guess?”
“It’s for my grandpa. He needs a new pair,” Owen says, somehow becoming a little more human with this revelation. He has a grandpa. I don’t know why that strikes me as strange, also.
“Sure, then. That’s fine,” I say, walking over to grab some of the bags. I pull the shoes out of the first and turn to hand them to Owen, surprised when he’s close to me. He’s so near me, and his eyes aren’t dark. They’re bright. He looks…happy. “Does your grandpa live close?”
I hand him the shoes, and for a few seconds, we’re both holding them. Owen is looking at the shoes. I’m looking at Owen’s hands and remembering how he stopped me from beating up the dashboard of his truck. I’m remembering how big his hands were—how they covered mine completely, how they were rough, yet warm and soft all the same.
“He lives in a nursing home, just on the other side of town. That was his truck,” he says, nodding over his shoulder.
I don’t know Owen’s grandfather, but I’m suddenly happy he’s getting my father’s shoes. I like Owen’s truck, and I rationalize that I probably would like his grandpa, too. Maybe a better man will wear those shoes.
“Here, let me help you get these in. I think we can fit them all in both cans,” he says, setting the shoes down and picking up three bags at once, lifting them easily and stuffing them in my already-overflowing can. He’s pushing with his arms, and I have a flash memory of how they looked when I watched him pull his shirt from his body early this morning.
“You missed school today,” I say, waiting to see how he responds. He doesn’t, much, only offering a shrug. “You miss a lot?”
“I get good grades. But I have to work, and sometimes I just can’t do both things at once,” he says, walking back to the side of my house for more bags. I lift one for every three he takes, and in two more trips, we have all traces of my father neatly stowed in the giant green trashcans by the curb.
“Where do you work?” I ask, trying not to overanalyze how civil our conversation is right now.
Owen presses down one more time on the top of my can, then pulls the black hat from his head, running his fingers through his dark hair, smoothing the long strands back so they sit neatly under his hat again.
“It’s just some job. Look, thanks for the shoes, but I’ve gotta go,” he says, suddenly short and on the verge of rude.
He pulls his keys from his pocket and heads toward his truck, tossing the shoes in the passenger seat and leaving me behind—feeling stupid for even asking questions about him.
I still watch him pull away, though. I don’t even disguise it. And strangely, things feel more right talking with Owen than they do with Willow, or Elise, or Ryan. Owen may be my best friend here in Woodstock, and that is pathetic.
I step back inside the house, and the warmth feels good. The air is a constant chill now, and I know real winter is coming. In the city, the buildings hid the snow and grayness of the sky. Everything always felt alive, even when the cold was biting. But you can see it coming out here. The leaves have all fallen, and the trees are sticks. The gray of the clouds, the color of winter is consuming—and it’s all around.
My piano looks like the sky. I just don’t want to play it.
My mother is still cleaning. She’s moved upstairs, working on my bathroom or hers; I can’t tell. Our house isn’t dirty, but I get what she’s doing. She’s erasing my father. Unfortunately, I can’t drag a thousand-pound piano into the driveway, otherwise I’d erase him, too.
My scarf and beanie are still lying on the sofa near the front door, so I grab them and bundle myself up before heading back outside. My feet carry me to the garage, and I lift the heavy door, having to jump to get it up all the way. I walk to the back, to the boxes of tools that my mom will have a much better chance of using.
There’s the hoop. Its rust has left a mark on the wall behind it, and I know it’s heavy. I remember from dragging it here in the first place. I move the boxes out of the way first, knocking one over and spilling bolts and drill bits in a thousand different directions. Once I sweep them into a pile, I pour them back in the box, not caring how disorganized I’m leaving it. My dad would hate that, and doing it brings a smile to my face.
Gripping the rim of the hoop with both hands, I drag it back o
ut of the garage, and it scrapes along the pavement, leaving an orange mark behind. That makes me smile, too.
I unfold the ladder and place it under the spot on the eave of the house where the hoop hung only a few days before. The bolts are still there, and if I can just manage to get the hoop to the top of the ladder, I can slide it against the garage until I can lock it in place.
“Honey, careful up there,” my mom says, her voice igniting a rapid fire in my chest. I wait for her to question what I’m doing, but she doesn’t. She’s too lost in her own world to care about this. “I’m running to the store. I’ll pick up some things for dinner. Need anything?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks!” I yell, thinking to myself about that word—need. A week ago, I needed to move back to the city, needed time alone to play my music…how I wanted to. I needed my friends—the ones I used to trust. But now, all I need to do is get this hoop up on the goddamned garage.
I grunt the entire time, and the metal rim scratches my arm through my sweatshirt in a few places, but after at least twenty minutes, I manage to get the hoop back up on the brackets—the weight of it no longer depending on my strength. It takes several more minutes to find the drill in the garage, but when I do, I’m able to lock the bolts down tight, and I push up on the rim to check that it’s stable.
After putting the tools and ladder away, I walk backward, shutting the garage door with a tired leap, and admiring my work. It’s almost as if it was never gone. I hope the boy who uses it at night comes back.
The car makes a skidding sound as it pulls up our driveway. I turn around expecting my mom, expecting to help her haul in a few bags of groceries. But I’m met with the dimmed headlights of a blue BMW—freezing me instantly.
She looks so different when she steps out of the car. She seems…older…and like a stranger. Her blond hair rings around her face, the curls perfect, and I can tell she spent a lot of time on her appearance. She wanted to look her best for me, for this…whatever this is. Ambush, I am guessing.
